It was a very hot afternoon in June 2005, and my friend Leah and I were waiting for the rush hour train from Tel Aviv. We were tired after a day of teacher training and couldn't wait to get back to Be'er Sheva where we were living.

When the train arrived, we got into the second carriage from the front; it was packed and becoming busier at each stop. The air-conditioning wasn't working at the rear, so the front was particularly crowded that day. I sat by the window admiring the changing landscape, from city to farmland. I remember talking to Leah about skydiving, telling her it was the most exciting thing I'd ever done.

Suddenly we felt an enormous pressure pushing us backwards into our seats. The windows smashed into tiny fragments and dust flew around violently. I could barely open my eyes. All I could hear was the heavy drone of metal-on-metal, and silence from the passengers.

The train was crashing, and it didn't feel as if it was going to stop. When it did, I thought, I would be dead. I thought about my boyfriend, Guy, and that he would receive the news first. I went through every family member and friend, wondering how each would deal with my death and thinking how much I loved them. Then I thought about myself – I was 24, too young to die.

Voices began to break through my thoughts. "What's happening?" they said and, "Oh my God!" Strangely, I was totally calm. I wasn't panicking; my heart wasn't even beating fast,

When the train finally came to a halt, we slowly stood up, pushing off the table that had fallen on to us; others stayed in their seats and many were covered in blood. The dust was beginning to settle but there was glass everywhere. People nearby were silent, but outside I could hear screaming. A soldier pushed open the mangled door for us to escape and held our hands as we jumped off the train. Outside we found more bloodied people, crying, panicking, talking on their phones or simply looking dazed.

Our carriage had been derailed, but the front one had taken the main impact – crushed, it lay on its side facing in another direction. We were halfway between Tel Aviv and home, surrounded by fields of sunflowers.

We had patches of blood on us and I remember searching my body for wounds, but I didn't find any. My knees felt painful and my hips were bruised, and Leah had cut her hand jumping off the train, but that was it. I rang Guy, who was very calm and said he would come and get us. I thought, OK, it's over, we're going home – the end.

Helicopters landed and we saw scared-looking soldiers running out with stretchers. All around us were ambulances, high-visibility jackets and people lying on the ground. Everyone was shouting for help. One man was lying on the embankment, facing up with a blank expression. When I turned to look back at him, someone was covering his face.

It was almost dark by the time we found Guy and he drove us home. Slowly I became inconsolable as I realised what we had just been through. My father arrived on the next flight from London to find me unable to eat, sleep or talk, in a daze of confusion, watching the news channels, trying to find out what had happened. Why wasn't I injured? Why did I survive? I think it was a mixture of luck and where we were sitting, so the force of the crash pushed us into our seats, rather than across the train.

In the days that followed, I convinced myself I had internal bleeding. I went to hospital, but I was fine: I think it was just part of the emotional trauma I was feeling.

I'd survived one of Israel's worst ever train crashes – eight people died and at least 200 were injured. The train had collided with a coal truck 25 miles south of Tel Aviv. It had been travelling at more than 70mph at impact and had continued on the line for at least a couple of kilometres. Even now, no one knows why it happened.

For weeks I was a wreck, suffering from hallucinations and guilt. But slowly I began to see the crash as a catalyst for change. I moved back to Britain to begin university and now have a job I love, promoting the benefits of growing food in the city.

Seven years later, I have come to terms with my survivor's guilt. I feel grateful and happy that I'm alive – but I still won't sit at the front of a train.